


Worth

by Syri



Category: Code Geass
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:41:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syri/pseuds/Syri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd never questioned Britannia's policies; it stood as an empire to cleanse the world of the sick, infirm, and the useless. Even as his mind grew weak and his eyes saw things that couldn't be real, Alistair felt assured of his own superiority above those not like "them". But now his illness marks him, a royal prince, as one unfit to live, and Alistair is forced to revalute not only the foundation on which he was raised, but also his own right to survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story set both before and during the events of Code Geass, exploring Britannia's policies of racial superiority and eugenics through the life of its 4th prince, Alistair du Britannia. I loved that Code Geass put effort into not straight-out villainizing the Britannians as a whole, and showing their culture. However, I wish they'd have gone further, which is where this idea was born. I wanted to explore the concepts and culture that molded the royal family.
> 
> I took liberties with how I think their laws and policies would go, but I took every care I could to try to not change any canon events or statements. I hope to fit this is a way that is can flow seemlessly into the given Code Geass story.
> 
> Enjoy!

)o(

He'd been here before, fourth floor, locked wing. Where they kept all the underage nutjobs, like himself. His neighbor on the other side of the couch was a girl about his age, who did nothing but cry. It wasn't even a productive cry either, just a strained little whimper that stretched into long, irritating notes. Alistair found it pitiful; didn't she know that's not how you did it? A good, shrieking, sobbing fit would have been far more productive for a good bit of attention. Or she could go a more subtle route, and sit quietly in the corner and cry. The latter strategy involved a lot of patience, as it could be hours before anyone found you, but the swollen eyes and tearstains were great for guilt trips. When he pulled that one on Odysseus, it was only moments after being found that he'd be scooped up and held and spoken to in that gentle, tender voice he loved so much.

Seriously, this chick wasn't gonna get anywhere. Amateur.

Across the room was a group of boys he thought shouldn't really be allowed to be hanging out together. Alistair wasn't the kind to stereotype but he considered any 17 year old who carved satanic verses into his arms with a broken light bulb to be not such good news.

Another girl was silently watching the tv they had bolted to the wall, not seeming to be much interested in the adventures of little Laura Ingalls. Neither was Alistair, really. He just kept imagining the fit Clovis would have over their fashion choices.

His stomach gave a sharp lurch as his brother crossed his mind. He'd been far too unconscious at the time (great amounts of blood loss tend to do that) to remember, but he knew now that Clovis was the one who found him. Hell, he was surprised his older brother wasn't a patient with him here; he was sure he now officially fucked him up for life. He supposed, though, it would be harder to hide who Clovis was. As fourth Prince, Alistair never got much of a face for the media. A false last name, and no one seemed to even know who he was. Good thing when your father doesn't give enough a shit about you to send you to a specialist who might actually be able to help. Nope, public access hospital was deemed good enough for his sixth child.

He hated that guilty pit in his stomach. It was the same one he got when he'd see the tired, weary lines on Odysseus's face, after trying for hours to calm and console Alistair in a tantrum. He always felt so sick, if only fleetingly, at how old his 24 year old brother often looked, particularly last week when he'd woke up in ICU, and he knew Oddie hadn't slept all night.

He curled up on the threadbare couch he sat on. Clovis wasn't supposed to come back. He wasn't supposed to see him at all. He should have gone to school the next morning and not have known till later. Course, he knew at the time, that would leave Odysseus to find him. That wasn't fair to his oldest brother, he knew, but he knew Oddie wouldn't have wanted it to be Clovis either.

Much of this was only in retrospect, of course. At the time, he hadn't been thinking about anyone else really. He barely recalls his fit, smashing the mirror to bits in his bathroom…his psychiatrist, the new one with the liver spots, told his family it was likely a bad combination of pills that spurred his second attempt. Too many antidepressants who didn't want to make nice with the antipsychotics and whatever. Alistair didn't care. It was just making excuses, and he knew his brothers would cling to them. If they could prove, somehow, that his relapse had been the result of a doctors mistakes, the clock wouldn't start again. He'd be safe…

He knew it was a lie. On some level, perhaps they all did, but they had to try. He'd been in remission only a few months, free of the…voices. Of the screaming, of the rocking, sobbing…Alistair curled tighter, his guilt knot refusing to ease. Times like these, he wished he'd never gotten that idea two years ago. He'd been only 12, he hadn't realized the reprucussions on his actions. He just wanted his mother again, she'd been gone so long, over a year. He missed her, he needed her, and it made such sense then. She was sick, and she was sent away, so if he was sick too, maybe they'd send him!

That was two years ago. Two years of pretending, two years of perfected acting, of immersing himself so strongly and deeply into his role that…he didn't know, now, where it stopped being an act. Couldn't recall what day it was that he woke up and his anxiety wasn't fake, where the idea of being left alone for even a few minutes set him to a panic. Somewhere between 12 and fourteen, something went wrong.

Mother always taught him it was wrong to lie. He'd listened vaguely, knowing everyone lied, everyone told falsehoods, especially within his family. He wished he'd listened to her. If he hadn't began that tale, he could have left his issues at the depression he'd had. He'd have grieved, and moved on. Instead, he had to cling to his distress, magnify it, twist it. He just wanted his mother, just wanted that tender love given as a child.

But now he was paying for his actions. The pain he caused his brother's, he could live with that, could deny his guilt and shove it down, as long as he tempered them with smiles and good days later. He could live with the hospital visits and the medications, but…he might not have to much longer.

He flopped over onto his side, still clutching his middle, and wanting badly to throw up.

He might not have to live with it much longer. He was a Class III mental patient after all. Class III, three years before he was declared incurable, a waste of resources. If trial couldn't prove his last doc was a whack, then his clock began ticking again.

Pity it had passed two years already.

)o(

Thank whoever has given me a try. I hope you'll continue to sample!


	2. Echo

Alistair didn't want to go into his bedroom. He stood at the threshold, balking as he surveyed what use to be his private retreat and sanctuary. Looking around at the now barren suite, he realized he should have known better than to ever label anything as private or his. In this palace, in this family, nothing was truly yours. Your home, your belongings, your freedom, all belonged to father, to the media, to whatever "greater good" was deemed worthy at the time.

Still, despite having grown up knowing this one simple rule, it struck Alistair coldly when he opened his bedroom door. Just two weeks ago, the large connecting rooms had been overflowing with evidence that its native dweller was a teenage boy. The large bookcases lining the walls of his living room had been crammed with the broken spines of horror novels, each more grisly and macabre than the last. The gleaming hardwood had been mostly covered by oriental and Persian rugs, their elaborate designs perfect for hiding the stains of spilled juice and ground in chocolate crumbs. His draperies had been deep crimson, his favorite color, and pale cream walls were adorned corner to corner with art, his own landscapes, his mother's abstracts, Clovis's portraits.

Now, the rooms he'd grown up in were hollow and barren as the hospital room he'd just left behind, and just as impersonal. During his absence, someone, he couldn't say who, though he suspected the offender was wide, gray, and far too old to still be procreating, had ordered Alistair's room to be stripped. Doctor's orders, his brothers had told him, but he doubted that. If Dr. Liver Spots had been so concerned about Alistair trying to kill himself, he'd have kept him locked away in the psych ward a little longer.

No, this was father's work, and he knew better than to pretend it was an act done out of concern for his son's well being.

A strong hand clapped him on the shoulder, and he winced under the force. Alistair, at 14, stood at average height and weighed maybe 120 pounds, while Odysseus had inherited their father's tank-like build, and often forgot his own blunt force. His hands were like those frying pans women in old sitcoms used to beat their husbands, but with the added danger of evolved thumbs.

"It's not so bad, Ali-Cat," he grinned, giving the shoulder he'd just dislocated a gentle rub. "And it's not permanent either. It's just…a precaution."

Alistair snorted, noting that even his books had been taken away.

"What do you think I'm going to do, try to bleed to death by means of Stephen King? Please, Oddie, I'm an artist. A Bible would be more poetic. A Bible makes everything more poetic."

Odysseus gave another firm squeeze, making Alistair grimace. He watched his older brother turn a sour shade; he'd call it Swedish Beige with an under current of chartreuse. Not a very aesthetic color.

"That isn't funny, Alistair," Odysseus murmured. He gave his brother a firm push, ushering him inside.

With no carpeting, no curtains and almost no furniture, Alistair could hear their footsteps echoing off the vaulted marble ceilings. Even without the trimmings, the room still absolutely dripped wealth. The crown molding alone, flaked with gold leafing, was worth more than he assumed most peasants made in a year, and everything from the floor panels to the marble counters in his bathroom were of a quality fit for no one but royalty. Yet surrounded by opulence and riches, Alistair would so rather just have his easel back.

"Where is everything?" he asked. Even his voice reverberated off the naked stone and glass, reaching his ears in a way that he supposed might be pretty.

Oddie too was surveying the room, and took a minute to answer. "In storage," he said vaguely. "You can have your things back once father's sure you aren't going to try and…hurt yourself again."

"Kill myself, Oddie," Alistair corrected. "Don't try and make it sound nicer. If I'd tried to hurt myself, I wouldn't be on Animal Control. Besides, what does it matter? According to him, I've got one year left. What would it matter if I just took the problem off their hands?"

He was pushing the envelope, again, and he knew it, but didn't much care. Odysseus scrubbed a hand over his face, scratching at the stubble he hadn't seemed to have the time or energy to shave recently, and turned away.

"Please, Ali-Cat? Stop talking like this? Nothing's going to happen to you."

Alistair snorted, and also turned his back to Odysseus, going instead to see how his bedroom had faired in the siege. He wasn't surprised when he found it was empty as the entrance room. His bed was still there, with a single set of sheets, but that was it. There wasn't even any hangers left in his closet; all his clothes had been folded into a chest of drawers.

He threw his duffle bag on his bed and followed, flopping onto his back and closing his eyes, taking a moment to savor being back in his own bed. Its plushiness welcomed him after so long on a stiff hospital bed.

He peeked over towards his door, hoping Odysseus wasn't going to follow him in. He didn't feel up to his company at the moment, and really hoped he'd just go.

With a wave of relief, he heard the firstborn's heavy, even footfalls crossing the floor, followed by the clunking of Alistair's latch.

Finally, Alistair felt room to breathe. He inhaled deeply, hoping to soak up some sort of familiarity in the scent of a now foreign room. He could still smell the acrylics he used, mingling beautifully with lacquered canvas, turpentine, adhesive and a slew of other chemicals known in some states to cause cancer.

Recalling the ominous warning labels his hobby came with, he inhaled deeply, a morbid part of his fucked up teenage psyche hoping it might hurry things along a little.

He rolled, noting easily that the sheets had been freshly laundered. They smelled like fancy detergent, not at all like Alistair, who also usually smelled of carcinogenic art supplies, and a lack of deodorant.

As he savored the only remaining tangible evidence that this room did, in fact, belong to him, he tried desperately to put his mental block back up. Usually, it was so easy in the comfort of his cave. His quarters were his domain, the one place in the palace where he could ascend birth order and feel like a king, even if only within these closed walls.

He rarely left his room, not since his mother had been sent away when he was 11. This had been her quarters as well, her only son having been so young still. He could still remember the fear and confusion he'd felt, waking up that February morning, and going to attempt to wake his mother. It was always a hard task, she slept so much. So many bottles of pills by her bedside; these to make her sleep, these to keep her awake, another to calm her crying, another to make her eat.

Alistair curled up in his bed, trying to warm himself in the Arizona sunlight streaming through his bare windows. He'd woken so late; for some reason, his alarm hadn't gone off. He woke up late, so late, immediately went to find her, but her bed hadn't been slept in. Her clothes weren't strewn across the floor as they often were. No half drank glass of water, no spilled bottles, nothing to indicate AnnaBelle had even gone to bed the previous night.

The desert heat did nothing to stop Alistair's chill as memories of the morning flooded through his mind like the many medications he now took. That was three years ago, and he hadn't heard anything of his mother since then. All he had was the hope that father spoke the truth when he told Alistair his mother was in a home for invalids, up near the East coast. He hoped it was true; mother was one of father's favorite lovers, and he prayed her status was enough to make her an exception to the three year rule.

He had to hope. If she would escape Britannia's harsh laws, surely he, someone of true royal blood, could too. He couldn't even dare to think she'd become a victim of "bettering the human gene pool," as he'd been taught. She was nobility, could trace her line back to the Scottish monarchy. He'd been taught the rules, the laws, but he'd also been raised to know that in most cases, his family was above petty rules.

He hoped this counted.

He breathed in again; he was becoming accustomed to the smell, and it didn't strike him as strongly. Ah, well. He couldn't feel too tore up about it. His sanctuary didn't seem as comforting as he remembered.

Ever since mother left, these rooms had been his escape. He didn't want to leave them, didn't want to have to associate with his many brothers and sisters, save for Clovis and Odysseus. Clovis was just his age, and his best friend, while Oddie was like a father to them both. Other then them, he really couldn't care. Schneizel was becoming some sort of political hot shot, and Cornelia was rarely home, and when she was, it was only long enough to dote on little Euphemia or Lelouch. Who needed to be around someone who only stared at him like he was some diseased scrap of trash, like Cornelia did, or seemed to already be planning what to say at his funeral?

Only foot thick stone walls could insulate him from their contempt, he often felt, and from everything else he'd rather lock away and not think about. Being outside with the others, with his half brothers and sisters, he couldn't handle that anymore. They weren't as patient with him as Oddie, didn't understand his…illness like Clovis did. He didn't want to be around them if he could help it. Whispers, he always heard them, babbles of gossip about poor Alistair, how sad, how awful, real pity.

He didn't want their pity. Or at least, not if all they had to offer was their empty words. That's not how his two brothers treated him.

Safe and sound in his shell, in his cozy safe corner of the world, he'd never had to face the pain on Oddie's face as he kicked at his shins and bit hard enough to leave scars on his hands and forearms. Never in here did he have to care about how tired he looked after he spent hours screaming obscenities at him. Outside, everyone overreacted to his fits, they acted afraid of him when he put on his best psychotic charade, and got as far away from him as they could, leaving him to feel like a self conscious freak. Can't hide form your own lies when everyone's watching. Course, he couldn't really remember what was a lie now, and what was slowly becoming true.

No one cared how loud he screamed in his own rooms, and he could easily pretend that Odysseus didn't care either, so long as he was there to listen, to soothe him, to try all night to get him to stop. No need to aknowledge the hurt in Clovis's eyes when he was being held. And, truly, he usually didn't care. Not so long as he was here, safe, loved.

Out there, he couldn't do that. Out there, Oddie looked so old, so worn and anxious. Alistair didn't want that. He was an artist, a painter of the unreal, one who crafter words to his liking, both on canvas and within these walls. And here he'd been a perfectly architectured masterpiece, complete with the masks they worse. He didn't want to see Odyssues tired and frustrated. No, no, he wanted the Oddie who came to him smiling, warm arms open just to cradle him, bring him sweets and rock him to sleep, and wiping tear stains from his cheeks. His world was too carefully painted to come unraveled there.

Though…he supposed it was too late. His castle was already crumbling.

The sunlight became too much for him; his windows faced West, and afternoon was blazing into his room rudely, without even being invited in. Bastard sunlight. That's why he preferred moonlit landscaped, or rainy hillsides. He got enough damned sun every day of the damned year, always too hot, too bright, especially in the layers of formalwear expected of a prince.

Alistair sought refuge in the further corners of the living room, where the sunstains hadn't reached yet, and the floorboards were cool, like the other side of the pillow.

He. Fucked. Up. That really was the only way he could describe his current situation. And being the overachiever he wasn't but could pretend to be for his mental analogy, he didn't just fuck up, he fucked up ROYAL…pun intended.

He supposed he'd just never taken it seriously. All his life he'd learned about eugenics, that long-ass word that was even harder to learn to spell than his own damned name (honestly, 27 legal ways to spell his name and his mother expected him to remember which one was his?) When he was small and sane, he'd nodded and agreed when the adults talked about such things, concepts of politics far beyond the grasp of a six year old who just wanted to go dag his prissy brother into the mud and laugh at the fit he'd throw.

He'd always known, like how to breathe, that the world was made up of the strongest survivors. It was one of the most basic concepts of evolution, a very, you snooze you loose sort of policy; simple, effective, and something he never paid mind to unless his tutors decided to test him on it.

So he'd never really thought it would end as it did. He just missed his mother. He'd grown up seeing her fits, how she'd cry and scream and burst into fits of hysterical laughter at times where such emotions made no sense. He remembered being so scared when his usually quiet mother would suddenly just begin to shriek at the top of her lungs, screaming and hollering but doing nothing else. Just sitting there, till she went hoarse.

It was ridiculously easy to copy, really. He was staring to suspect that the world famed Britannian doctors really didn't give much a shit about treating things like this; surely a 12 year old couldn't mimic the symptoms of disorganized schizophrenia so convincingly as to deceive not one but four separate psychiatrists. Or perhaps they just didn't care. Kids sick? Give him a pill. Kids got an infection? Give him a pill. Kids running around completely naked down the hallway laughing and pulling at his hair? Yup. Pills. Those particular ones were a lovely shade of green. Much better than the orange ones they gave him for the panic attacks. Orange was such a tacky color when it had a yellow base, and he refused to take them on principal. He was an artist, he had standards.

Whatever the reason they believed his surely bad acting were irrelevant now. Two years he kept it up, two years of shrinks and pills and two suicide attempts it took him to realize that no, the Britannian legal system didn't in fact make their euthanasia laws for grins and giggles. When they saw three years, they're kinda serious.

Alistair shivered despite the heat creeping closer, remembering the formal hearing he'd been given, the one he had to force himself to giggle through. To keep up appearances. But Oddie wasn't giggling. Out there in the open, in the outside, he couldn't pretend Odysseus didn't break down sobbing as soon as they left the courtroom and the judge who told him Alistair had one year left to recover. Even once he reached his safe rooms, he couldn't get that sound out of his head, nor the feeling of his crushing arms around him as he promised he wouldn't fail him this time.

He didn't know then. He hadn't realized…it was a game to him, not even a teenager when he began. Besides, he was royalty, haughty and pretentious. Rules didn't apply to the wealthy. He just wanted to go where mother had gone. Did AnnaBelle have a hearing? Was she told her days were nothing more than a number in a file now? He didn't know, he'd been so sheltered from the horrors growing up, or as much as he could be. Perhaps that's why he assumed it wasn't as big a deal as others made it seem. After all, mother was ok, wasn't she? And he would be too?

Yes, he would be too, he soothed himself as he drew his knees up, not wanting the sun, the biggest part of that outside world to touch his feet.

Yes, he would be safe, as long as he was here, safe, with the two brothers he loved.

)o(

Alistair wouldn't sleep that night. His mind was unusually quiet, but the palace was not. Someone was making an unholy racket on the third floor, directly above him. Sawing, hammering perhaps. Whatever it was gave him a royal fucking migraine.

Curious, though. The rhitd floor was mostly unoccupied. He wondered, vaguely, what purpose renovations could serve to a wing no one lived in.

)o(

Thank you to anyone who's been reading, and especially to those who reviewed!


End file.
